


Loneliness

by AlecdeNocturna



Category: Original Work
Genre: Discussion of Death, Gen, Melancholy, Philosophy, Ramblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24603265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlecdeNocturna/pseuds/AlecdeNocturna
Summary: So, this little piece came to be, because, well because my thoughts are unknowable, even to me.This happens, when you think, it is a good idea to watch the Donmar Warehouse Play Coriolanus, and then you come here and read Fanfics about the characters and actors *cough*.And then you proceed to talk on the next morning about the play, and the characters, and the actors' style and all the implications hidden therein. And whilst you talk, your breast is pierced by a sudden pain. Sharp and crippling. And your eyes begin to burn for no reason at all.This deep dark hole opened up inside you, and it tries to devour you whole. And even hours later you have this feeling of surreality clinging to you and every action you take.And then you sit down before your keyboard and write, feverishly and mad. This is the result.This little confusing prose.Even as I read it again, I still feel an echo of the hollowness, but tempered by time and space, not as fresh and raw.So here you have it, this little spontaneous melancholy, hyper-theatrical philosophy.
Kudos: 1





	Loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> So, this little piece came to be, because, well because my thoughts are unknowable, even to me.
> 
> This happens, when you think, it is a good idea to watch the Donmar Warehouse Play Coriolanus, and then you come here and read Fanfics about the characters and actors *cough*.  
> And then you proceed to talk on the next morning about the play, and the characters, and the actors' style and all the implications hidden therein. And whilst you talk, your breast is pierced by a sudden pain. Sharp and crippling. And your eyes begin to burn for no reason at all.  
> This deep dark hole opened up inside you, and it tries to devour you whole. And even hours later you have this feeling of surreality clinging to you and every action you take.  
> And then you sit down before your keyboard and write, feverishly and mad. This is the result.  
> This little confusing prose.  
> Even as I read it again, I still feel an echo of the hollowness, but tempered by time and space, not as fresh and raw.  
> So here you have it, this little spontaneous melancholy, hyper-theatrical philosophy.

„It looks beautiful.“

Her head never tilted up from its downward position angled to the painting.

„Thank you. But the others here are much more worthwhile.“

His voice, posh and British, like most of them around her, sounded doubtful.

„Maybe. But I still find yours beautiful. I have seen you here every day for a week. Are you an art student.“

She was a little bit too old to be a traditional student. Her brush strokes were a little bit too bold and unrefined. But some people found their calling late in life.

„No, I am not. At least not in the typical sense of an art student.“

Her brush twirled around her fingers, encompassing the hall.

„Self-taught and self-studied, well mostly. But in this day and age, everyone is an artist. And so am I. Maybe.“

He was silent, only studying her movements, unhurried as they were. 

„Why this particular painting, if I may ask?“

Her laugh came near-silent, self-deprecating.

„It sounds so goth cliche, but it spoke to me. I find it beautiful in its melancholy, its darkness, its savagery. And so I try to make that my own.“

„I see some other artists in your work, some nods...“

Her brush, dipped in black, coloured in deep shadows at the edges.

„Yes, you are right. I am influenced by others that speak to me too. Everything I have seen and consumed lives in me dwells deep inside, changes me and my perception. And through that lens, I look at this work, and paint it, as I see it.“

„If you are not an art student, how did you convince them to let you in?“

A shrug, only half of her body moved, the other still painting. 

„I asked them.“

Matter of factly, logical, practical.

„Why are you here then, if this is not for a project or thesis?“

„Because I am nowhere else, don't have to be anywhere else. Because I want to. Because nothing is waiting for me out there.“

„Don't you have a life outside these halls?“

„Yes and no. I had a life, have a life, but it is on pause.“

„You still need to drink and eat.“

Another light laugh.

„Yes, that I need to do, else I die. But death is not the worst, as you can see.“

„I see that. At least in your work. But why have you nowhere else to be?“

„Because my family is dead. And I needed to get out, out of my life, out of my skin, be somewhere else, be somebody else.“

„Oh, I am sorry I brought it up.“

Her brush never seized in its strokes.

„No, it is ok. It is not ok, but it is. This is why I am here, and not there. I never had the courage, and even now, I am a coward.“

His hand hovered over her shoulder, unsure.

„Pain is human. It is natural to not want to feel it.“

„Oh, but I feel it. I just like the feel of it here more than there. Here I have a purpose.“

„Did you not have a job back...home?“

„I did, I do. But I took time off. To travel, to grow, to grieve, to unroot, to shrivel back down. They are gone. And I can't say where. It may be heaven, not hell, because they were good people, with flaws, as everyone has them, but not overly cruel or villenous, so not hell. They could still be bound to the great wheel, waiting for their next turn at this life, but they could also be wandering the fields of Elysium or Hades or the Underworld. They could dine in the hall of Frigg in Fensalir, not Valhalla, for they never were warriors, but there are many halls. They could be at home in the fields of reed, building their house anew, having gone through the gates of the underworld, and found good after the weighing. They could be everywhere and nowhere. And I am still here.“

„Did you learn of those things here?“

„No, I knew them before. I know so much and so little. And I love it and hate it at the same time. I feel it warring in my breast. Feel it tearing me apart. I feel the rage, and the sadness, and the pain, and the joy.“

His hand was a solid weight on her shoulder. Her head tilted up, seeing him for the first time. His eyes held the same sadness, the same melancholy. His hands did not hold a brush, but they were an artist's hand. The furrow of his brow spoke of intelligence and of darker thoughts. His smile was kind and quiet.

Without a word, she laid her brush down on the easel and stood up. He towered over her, not intimidating, just being. 

„Thank you.“

„For what?“

„For listening, for asking, for seeing.“

„Come.“

He took her hand, lightening up her face with a new feeling. A now mischievous smile tugged at his lips as they both left the grand hall, leaving the two paintings behind. One only half-finished, the other one its missing half.


End file.
